


Three Times Pete and Patrick Get High (and One Time Joe Regrets All His Life Decisions)

by fro_baby



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Drug Use, First Kiss, M/M, Pining, Shotgunning, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 12:09:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3569114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fro_baby/pseuds/fro_baby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’ll be like, like, like Patrick Stump’s Day Off. The Bakefest Club. Sixteen Bong Rips. Pretty in—in Pot-”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Times Pete and Patrick Get High (and One Time Joe Regrets All His Life Decisions)

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much what it says on the tin: weed, teenage makeouts, and gratuitous 80's movie references. I'm gay stoner garbage, so I decided to write about the boys being gay stoner garbage. Maybe someone, someday, will forgive me.

**1.**

It’s eleven PM, the night before a show, and Patrick is fussing.

About _everything._

First it was the state of Pete’s amp (ruined, according to Patrick, because _what the fuck, why did you set your EQs this way, what is wrong with you, do you want to blow out your fucking tube_ ), then the strange disappearance of Patrick’s capo (shoved, as it turned out, into Joe’s case by mistake, earning the poor guitarist an exasperated sigh to beat all other contenders), then the shitty quality of the random piece of shitty television they’d turned on to get him to shut up ( _oh my god, why is this fucking movie always on, Joe Pesci isn’t even that funny, who cares about the fucking getaway car_ ), and now, finally, the sound of his guitar. He’s sitting on the far side of Joe’s basement, the shitty Fender cradled in his arms and his socked feet tapping out a nervous rhythm on the carpet as he re-tunes it for the thousandth time.

“Hey, Patrick,” Pete asks languidly, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. “Hey, uh, remind me: when’s our show tomorrow?”

“Nine thirty,” Patrick responds immediately, without even looking up from the task at hand.

“In the morning?” Pete inquires sweetly, earning himself a withering look from Patrick instead of a response. He grins, raises his hands defensively, and adds, “Just wondering, man. You really think that piece of junk is gonna hold a tune for more than twenty minutes?”

“Hey, fuck you, man, that was my first guitar.” Joe elbows Pete in the ribs, his eyes still fixed on the courtroom drama onscreen. “Anyway, give it up. I don’t think even you could pull the stick out of his ass.”

“Well, it’s not like I have _no_ experience in that department,” Pete laughs, earning himself an echoing chuckle from Joe and another irritated sigh from Patrick. “Hey, you think if we shoved a lump of coal up there, we’d get a diamond back?”

While Joe’s snigger expands into a full-blown cackle, Patrick finally sets the guitar down with an angry clunk.

“Oh, we’ve descended to Ferris Bueller jokes now? Hilarious. Brilliant. Original.” He rolls his eyes and shoves himself to his feet while Pete sulks a little, even though he should have known that the kid’s bottomless trashcan of a brain would place the reference immediately. “Your comedic genius never fails to astound me.”

“Dude.” Pete puts the other arm over the back of the couch, twisting all the way around to regard Patrick solemnly. “You’re being a Cameron.”

“I am _not_ being a Cameron.” Patrick scowls back at him in the most Cameron-like way possible.

“You totally are.”

“I never got that guy’s deal,” Joe comments absently. “Like, dude just _really_ needed to take a fucking bong rip, y’know? Would’ve solved the whole fucking movie a lot quicker.”

“Huh.” Pete untwists himself slowly, regarding Joe thoughtfully. “Trohman…”

“Hm?”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

There’s a pause, and then Joe says, “No?” at the exact same second that Patrick snaps, “Absolutely not.”

“Aw, c’ _mon_ …”

“Dude, after the margarita mix, I am not letting you _anywhere_ near my bong,” Joe says firmly, finally turning away from the TV to fix Pete with an exasperated look. “There was a while when I thought Galadriel wasn’t gonna recover.”

Pete opens his mouth to retort that a bong as nice as Joe’s deserves far better than a basement-dwelling nerd boy who named her after a fucking _elf_ , but Patrick beats him to it with a muttered, “Oh, thank god.”

“I do, however,” Joe continues thoughtfully, “Have a _very_ nice new piece that I’ve been meaning to break in…”

“Joe,” Pete says slowly, a grin spreading inexorably across his face. “Joseph Trohman, have I ever told you that I worship you?”

“Many times,” Joe grins back, rolling onto his feet and wandering off in search of illegal substances. “You may, however, continue.”

“I, uh, think I might just head to bed,” Patrick mumbles, trying ineffectually to dart past the couch. “You guys have fun, try not to hotbox the whole house, don’t be stingy with the Febreeze-”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Pete clucks, his hand darting out to snag a bony wrist and jerk his newly minted lead singer backwards onto the couch. “Not a chance, Pattycakes. We are getting you _baked_ tonight. It’ll be like, like, like Patrick Stump’s Day Off. The Bakefest Club. Sixteen Bong Rips. Pretty in—in Pot-”

“Don’t be a dickhead, Pete, you know I can’t smoke.” Patrick rolls his eyes again in the face of Pete’s perplexed look. “I’m _singing_ tomorrow, you fucking Neanderthal, I’m gonna be bad enough without smoking out my vocal cords.”

“Tricky, Tricky,” Pete coos, pulling Patrick across the couch towards him. “This will be good for you, believe me. When was the last time you got stoned, my tiniest, grumpiest friend?”

“Like, months ago,” Patrick replies, scowling ferociously at Pete but not edging away. This, Pete decides, is quite an accomplishment considering the arguments, insults, and copious irritated glares that have populated their barely six-month-old relationship. But, whatever; Patrick hasn’t physically beaten the shit out of him yet, and Pete’s never been much of a quitter, so.

“At some shitty grad party,” Patrick’s saying, looked even more pissed off at the memory than he is at Pete. Which is, well, an improvement? Sort of? “I coughed my fuckin’ lungs out, and I didn’t even feel anything. I’m not wrecking my fucking throat to get a little buzzed and maybe feel nauseous.”

“Perfect,” Pete declares as Joe returns, triumphantly bearing a yellow glass pipe and the empty Return of the Jedi VHS case that he uses to store his weed. “No one ever gets high their first time, which means you’re totally set to get whacked out of your fuckin’ brain tonight.”

Joe nods vigorously, sets the atrocious bowl down on the coffee table, and starts to pack it with uncharacteristic care. Patrick watches him narrowly, still dubious.

“Fear not, Stumpy,” Joe reassures him, depositing weed fragments in the bowl like he’s decorating a fucking cake. “Sit back, relax, and let Pete and myself guide you through this magical ganja jungle.”

“Ganja jungle,” Pete cackles, kicking his feet up onto the table as Joe puts the finishing touches on his masterpiece. “Weed wilderness, dude. Mary Jane marsh. Bud bog.”

“Yeah, okay, um,” Patrick interrupts him impatiently, “Still proud owner of a throat here, remember? A throat that very much does not want the shit scorched out of it tonight?”

“Trick. _Trick._ Have a little faith in your ganja guides, will you?” Pete puts a reassuring hand on Patrick’s shoulder, looks confidently into his eyes, and says, “We’ll just shotgun it.”

The words fall out of his mouth before he’s entirely aware that they even exist, before the idea is anything more than a vague sort of inkling combined with the familiar, buried urge to cling to every part of Patrick’s body that he can access. The full weirdness doesn’t really hit him until he glances over and realizes that Joe is shooting him a curious look, one that quickly vanishes as he ducks his head and starts digging a lighter out of his VHS case.

Meanwhile, Patrick’s frowning and asking, “What do you mean, shotgun?”

With Joe studiously avoiding his gaze, it’s up to Pete to dig himself out of this hole. Thing is, there don’t seem to be a whole lot of places for him to go, and, well, he’s never exactly been the king of impulse control, so he opts for what might just be the worst possible direction: deeper.

“I’ll just take a hit and then blow it back into your mouth,” Pete explains, weirdly casual in spite of the sudden thunder of blood pounding in his ears. “Cools the smoke right down, makes it way easier on your throat. You’ll sing like a fuckin angel tomorrow, promise.”

There’s a moment of loud, loud silence before Joe clears his throat, holds the bowl up in one hand and the lighter in the other, and announces, “It is time.”

Before Pete can even check in with Patrick, the younger boy scowls, folds his arms across his chest, and huffs, “ _Fine,_ ” like he’s so pissed that he hasn’t even bothered to process what, exactly, this little adventure is going to entail.

“Glad you could join us, Patrick,” Joe says courteously, lifting the bowl to his mouth. “Now, as your most esteemed host and even more esteemed provider of the bud, I believe it is within my rights to start things off…”

“Please, please.” Pete waves at him encouragingly, mimicking his formal tea party tone. As expected, it only serves to irritate Patrick further, which is, well, sort of the point—at least it seems like a better tactic than panicking, grabbing Patrick’s hands, and asking a hundred times if he’s sure about this, if this makes him uncomfortable, if he fully understands what’s about to happen-

Joe lights the bowl and takes a prodigious hit, breathing in for so long that little plumes of smoke start to curl out of his nostrils.

“All right, easy on that, iron lungs,” Pete snorts, still strangely normal, and holds his hand out for the piece, which Joe hands over with an exaggerated flourish. After Pete takes his own hit, slow and steady but not flamboyantly huge, he turns to Patrick, who’s sitting there with his mouth open and an expectant, vaguely confused look on his face. It occurs to Pete that it’s suddenly too late to fully explain the mechanics of shotgunning, and everything is moving too fast somehow, and all at once it’s like Pete’s sitting somewhere outside his own body, watching himself as he leans over and-

It’s not a kiss. Pete tells himself that firmly as his lips meet Patrick’s and he expels a lungful of smoke into the other boy’s mouth. It’s hard to tell whether Patrick’s sharp inhale is in response to the shock or the smoke, but when Pete pulls away, Patrick’s staring at him, eyes wide and mouth sealed firmly shut.

“Breathe it out,” Pete croaks at him, and he does, a slightly diminished cloud of smoke flowing out of that absurdly pink mouth. The mouth, Pete realizes suddenly, that he just kissed for the first time—no, not kissed, _definitely_ not kissed, Pete has _never_ thought about kissing that mouth and he sure as hell isn’t now. Absolutely not.

While Joe takes his second hit, Pete raises his eyebrows questioningly at Patrick, who seems to have turned pink from his shirt collar to the brim of his hat. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Patrick says hoarsely, one hand brushing involuntarily across his Adam’s apple as he clears his throat experimentally. “That—that barely burned at all.”

“Toldja,” Pete grins, the roaring receding somewhat from the edges of his hearing. “You get it into your lungs?”

“I think so?” Patrick shrugs. “Couldn’t really tell.” And it’s weird, because it’s almost like he’s avoiding Pete’s eyes, his tone almost a little too even as he fixes his gaze on his knees. Pete doesn’t know what to make of it, so he just decides not to bother.

“Let’s try it again,” he suggests (completely for the selfless purpose of getting Patrick astronomically high, of course, with no ulterior motive in mind whatsoever). “Concentrate on breathing in deep.”

“Kay,” Patrick nods, still weirdly calm, folding his legs up underneath him and turning to better face Pete on the couch as he takes another long hit. This time goes a little better; the lip-lock isn’t quite so awkward, and after a moment Patrick sits back and expels a stream of smoke like a fuckin’ pro.

“Not so bad, huh?” Pete murmurs during Joe’s turn, elbowing Patrick conspiratorially in the ribs. This time, Patrick meets his eyes, and the smile the blonde turns on him is hazy and a little soft around the edges. Pete can’t help but smile back.

It goes like that for a few more rounds, Joe ascending rapidly into his usual distant cloud of paradise while Pete blows mouthful after mouthful of smoke down Patrick’s throat. And maybe it’s just because Pete’s getting a little high, too, but he could swear that somewhere down the line the quality of those shotguns changes, going from tense, abrupt collisions to slow, easy presses of lips that send shockwaves through Pete’s entire body. And, okay, he’s _definitely_ pretty fucking high, but he could swear that for a moment Patrick’s lips linger against his, and thank god he doesn’t have the skin tone to blush because his face is fucking _glowing_.

“I think we’re done, friends,” Joe informs them, motioning sadly at the now ashy bowl.

“Fuck,” Patrick mumbles, burying his face in his hands. “Fuck, I think I’m high.”

“Welcome to the jungle, baby,” Pete grins expansively, flinging his arms along the back of the couch in a motion that makes the air around him ripple like water.

“And how is our young adventurer feeling?” Joe inquires, draping himself majestically across the basement’s sole, ratty armchair.

“Fine,” Patrick murmurs, finally lifting his head and displaying his gloriously pink cheeks and absurdly mussed bangs. “I—yeah, just. Sensations. A lot. Are—am I flushed?”

“Like a fuckin’ toilet, man,” Joe snorts, and they all break out into embarrassingly stereotypical stoner giggles.

“Lil’ cherub,” Pete chuckles, letting his head flop back against the couch.

“Fuck off,” Patrick giggles, tipping over sideways until he can press his cheek into the armrest, still aiming that smoked-out smile at Pete. “This is your fault, shitdick.”

“Shitdick,” Pete laughs, and then they both laugh, and then it’s like the world shifts out of place a little. Just like that, Pete suddenly finds himself struggling to ignore the lazy, contented curve of Patrick’s mouth, the hot flush in his cheeks, the way his eyes have gone half-lidded and sated and dark. It’s a common thing with Pete, staring fixedly at things when he’s high, but it’s never been quite like this, because generally when he’s gazing absently at lamps or trees or Joe’s Houses of the Holy poster, he’s not thinking about _kissing_ them, about pulling Patrick in for another shotgun and then flicking his tongue subtly across those plush lips, about crawling into Patrick’s lax arms and peeling those tattered, oversized jeans right off him…

“Shit,” Joe says slowly, dragging Pete out of the cesspool of his thoughts. “You guys want some food?”

“ _Yeah,_ ” Patrick gasps, almost managing to sit upright, and Joe laughs uproariously at him.

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a bona fide jungle explorer here,” Joe grins, slowly pushing himself to his feet and strolling in slo-mo towards the mini fridge squatting in one corner. “Let’s hunt and gather, bro.”

“Whatever,” Patrick snorts, sliding off the couch and joining Joe in his endless trek towards the fridge. “You got any Reese’s cups?”

They vanish behind the couch, leaving Pete to stare up at the ceiling, feel the world continue to tilt inexorably out of its customary alignment, and try to let his memories of Patrick’s lips float away along with everything else.

 

**2.**

            “I need to quit my fucking job,” Patrick announces, slamming the door behind him and throwing his backpack unceremoniously onto the couch. It smacks into Pete’s thigh with an unpleasant _thwap_.

Pete, more or less used to it, just pushes the ratty thing aside, turns the page of his book, and grunts, “Hm?”

“Record store assholes are the worst,” Patrick says, flinging himself onto the couch next to his bag. “You would not _believe_ the kind of shit I got today.” He pushes his glasses down his nose and adopts his most nasal, irritating hipster voice: “‘Nice Saves the Day shirt, dude, did you just teleport in from 1998?’ ‘Your of Montreal selection is all right, I guess, if you like the _mainstream_ stuff.’ Like, someone actually asked me if we carried _Almost Blue_ today, what the fuck. It’s like people just pretend to like the terrible shit because no one else does.”

Pete finally glances up from his book to give Patrick a questioning look; when he gets going about the music snobs, Pete often finds himself left in the dust.

“Oh, come _on,_ dude, country Costello is the absolute worst.” Patrick rolls his eyes like Pete is being more than usually dense. “Good Year for the Roses is, like, his shittiest song _ever_ , I have no idea why anyone would willingly subject themselves to that.”

“Gotcha.” Pete turns back to his book and says absently, “Well, the universe continues to not grace us with a record deal, so don’t start writing your resignation letter just yet.”

“Shocker,” Patrick snorts, and Pete feels him slump backwards into the couch cushions with a deep sigh. There’s a pause, and then Patrick ventures slowly, “One good thing did happen today, though.”

“Yeah?” Pete turns another page without looking up; knowing Patrick, it’s either going to be free records, an awesome sandwich at lunch, or a cute girl with surprisingly good taste in death metal and/or white boy funk. Pete’s probably an awful person, but he finds himself praying silently for records and sandwiches.

But instead, Patrick says, “So, you know that girl at the record store with cousins in California?”

At that, Pete looks up, because a, it’s intriguing, b, Patrick’s voice has gone suddenly mischievous, and c, and he’s rummaging secretively in his backpack. Pete’s suspicions are confirmed when Patrick makes a satisfied noise and holds up a plastic film canister packed to the brim with…

“She said it was OG Kush,” Patrick says, half triumphant, half sheepish. “And, like, it was only twenty bucks, and I was really fuckin’ stressed, and…”

“Patrick,” Pete grins, dog-earing his page and snapping his book shut. “Pattycakes. Rickster. My dearest, most beloved Stump.”

“Yes, you can have some.” Patrick rolls his eyes, but he’s laughing. “I was gonna ask if we could use your piece, anyway. Plus, like, I’m still complete shit at smoking, so.”

“Ganja guide at your service,” Pete declares, rolling off the couch with more energy than he’s felt all day.

“We doing this now?” Patrick raises an eyebrow. “Andy’s gonna be pissed if the apartment smells like a Grateful Dead concert when he gets back.”

“My room?” Pete suggests, maybe a little too eager, but damn, it’s been too long since he last smoked up. Living with a straight-edge vegan is really cramping his style. “We can blow it out the window.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Patrick shrugs, heaving himself off the couch and tossing the precious canister from hand to hand. “Lead the way.”

They end up on Pete’s bed, legs tangled up in Nightmare Before Christmas sheets and a brisk fall breeze spilling in through the window. Patrick, as promised, is just as bad at smoking as he’s always been, wheezing and chugging water and coughing until his eyes tear up. Pete would almost feel bad if he didn’t keep letting the fucking bowl go out.

“Shit,” Patrick gasps after the fourth botched attempt, pulling off his glasses and wiping his eyes. “I’m sorry, dude, I don’t know if my pipes are up to this.”

“It’s chill,” Pete shrugs before lighting the bowl and taking a practiced hit, sharply aware of Patrick’s jealous eyes on him as he blows a long, easy cloud of smoke out the window. Poor, asthmatic little fucker.

“Hey, uh.” When he glances across the bed, Patrick’s avoiding his gaze and fidgeting a little, and Pete’s maybe a little buzzed already but damn if it isn’t the cutest fucking thing he’s seen in a long time.

And then Patrick looks sheepishly up at him from under the brim of his hat and says, “Shotgun me?”

It hits him like a punch to the gut, his heart slamming straight into his throat because fuck, he didn’t even think Patrick _remembered_ that, let alone felt okay enough about it to bring it up so casually, let _alone_ suggest that they do it again. They’ve never even talked about that night in Joe’s basement, and Pete’s done his best to convince himself that it’s for the best, but, well. When Patrick just flat-out asks like that, how can he say no?

It’s just as easy as it was the last time: the slow, careful press of lips, the hot stream of breath sliding from Pete’s mouth to Patrick’s, the gorgeous way the smoke spills out from between those perfect lips and, okay, Pete’s staring, he needs to stop staring, but he’s starting to get a little high and tearing his eyes away from Patrick’s mouth is _way_ harder than it should be.

“Damn,” Patrick sighs, watching the smoke disperse into the dark blue evening sky. “Why can’t it always be that easy?”

“You want another?” Pete asks without quite meaning to, and it’s really bad, honestly, because Patrick started this but now he’s _offering_ , like he doesn’t know that it’s a terrible idea, like he’s not going to spend the next week thinking hopelessly about kind-of-kissing his infuriatingly straight bandmate.

But it’s too late, because Patrick’s meeting his eyes and nodding slowly, his movements already a little soft and uncertain. “If you’re up for it?”

Pete just nods and lights the bowl again, focusing on getting a good lungful instead of anticipating the lip contact (it kind of doesn’t work, but at least he tries). What he doesn’t anticipate, however, is the hand that Patrick puts on his cheek as their mouths connect, and Pete’s so shocked by his touch that he almost forgets to breathe out. Fortunately, he can blame his slow reaction time on the weed, and a few hits later he’s so fucking baked that he can’t even bother wondering about whether they’re shotgunning or just kind of making out; he gets lost somewhere in the slow, warm slide of Patrick’s lips, the smoke curling from mouth to mouth, the gentle slide of Patrick’s fingertips on his jaw, the flutter of cold breeze and hot breath against his skin.

And then, before he knows it, he’s got an empty pipe in his hand and a warm, pliant Patrick curled into his side, head resting on his shoulder and face tucked into the crook of his neck.

“Hey,” Pete murmurs, using his free hand to pluck off the hat that’s jabbing into his jugular and toss it into the floor.

It’s a sign of how thoroughly stoned Patrick is that he doesn’t even complain; he just nestles deeper into Pete and mumbles, “S’cold.”

In response, Pete reaches over and closes the window, earning himself a pleased sigh and an arm tossed around his waist. Settling more comfortably against the wall, Pete sets the pipe down on his bedside table (slowly, carefully, like it’s infinitely precious) and, without really thinking about it, slides his fingers into Patrick’s hair.

“Oh my _god,_ ” Patrick groans, and Pete freezes, his cloudy brain struggling to process the tone of his voice.

“What, no, what are you doing, don’t _stop_ ,” Patrick says, tilting his head slightly to squint up at Pete. “That feels fucking _amazing_ , I can feel it through my entire _body,_ holy shit.”

“You’re high,” Pete snorts, but he starts running his fingers through Patrick’s hair anyway, his eyes slipping shut because holy shit, the sensation of the fine strands sliding across his skin is an _experience._

They stay like that for god knows how long, Pete’s fingers moving ceaselessly through Patrick’s hair and Patrick’s hand tracing slow, gentle circles into Pete’s tee shirt. Pete can’t help but sneak the occasional glance down at the sleepy blonde cuddled up against him, because Patrick is kind of hilarious like this, all the daily frustrations and stress and bitchiness smoked away, leaving nothing but happiness, affection, and ridiculous amounts of cute behind. Not that he doesn’t love the full irritable, joke-cracking, take-no-shit Patrick experience, because duh, what do you think he fell in love with in the first place, but stoned Patrick is also, like, pretty cool.

Stoned Patrick is also nuzzling his face slowly against the side of Pete’s neck, which is _completely_ adorable but also kind of overwhelming, especially in Pete’s current, hypersensitive state. His skin feels all tingly, every sensation sending shocks shooting through his entire body, which is probably why he shudders hard as Patrick’s lips brush gently, accidentally—he assumes, anyway, which is _way_ less terrifying than the alternative—against his neck.

“Sorry,” Patrick mumbles, tucking his face—and his mouth, his fucking mouth, Jesus—deeper into Pete’s neck. “It’s just, I—your fucking _skin,_ dude, holy shit.”

“It’s—it’s cool,” Pete manages, in spite of the fact that he has no fucking clue what Patrick’s saying. He’s less worried about that, though, and more worried about the fact that he can’t stop thinking about Patrick’s lips against his skin, Patrick’s fingers moving absently against his hip, Patrick’s entire fucking body pressed up against his from mouth to thigh. And yeah, Pete’s always been kind of a horny high because stoned sex is a fucking gift from god, okay, but this—this is just _beyond_ , this is _absurd_ , this is making him half-hard in his jeans, what the fuck. He’s never gotten this turned on from cuddling before, for god’s sake, but he’s also had a massive boner for Patrick since basically day one, so maybe it’s not all that surprising that the mere sensation of those ridiculously talented lips against his neck is way more than his body can handle right now.

He finds himself wondering suddenly if Patrick can feel his pulse thundering underneath his skin, because the kid makes a soft noise and turns his head slightly, sending another shiver rocketing up and down Pete’s spine. When he glances down, Patrick’s eyes are wide and hazy and _dark_ , pupils blown and lips parted.

To be perfectly honest, Pete couldn’t tell you how they end up kissing: it’s got something to do with Patrick reaching up to touch his face and Pete tilting his head down and Patrick letting out a slow, slow breath as he presses up against Pete’s chest until their lips touch. And if Pete thought the shotgunning was kind of like making out, this is a whole other ballgame, a warm, lazy slide of lips and tongue and Patrick’s hands in his hair and Patrick’s breath stuttering against his mouth and Patrick’s hips under his hands as Patrick slides over and straddles him and Patrick, Patrick, holy _shit_ , Patrick.

And then Pete pulls away, breath gone a little ragged, presses his forehead to Patrick’s, and gasps, “Fuck. Fuck, Patrick, this is…”

“A terrible idea,” Patrick supplies weakly, his fingers still carding absently through Pete’s less than clean hair. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.” Pete nods, the haze of smoke and sensation and sheer bloody arousal clearing enough for the more responsible parts of his brain to take over. “Yeah, we should—we should not, with this, right now.”

Patrick nods, swallowing hard, and clambers off Pete’s lap, leaving a shock of cold air in his wake. And it kills Pete a little to cut things off like this just as they’re heading in the direction of his worst/best/most unsettling sex dreams, but he knows better than to go any further when they’re both stoned out of their minds and all decisions are questionable at best. Pete may be a complete disaster when it comes to sex, but he’s always believed firmly that if you’re too fucked up to realize that seven Twinkies and a jar of pickles are a bad combo, you _definitely_ shouldn’t be fucking someone who you’ve never even admitted that you _like,_ for Christ’s sake. Doubly so when that someone is your bandmate, roommate, and best friend on the planet, and fucking things up would basically be the end of the world.

Fortunately, Patrick doesn’t go far; he just curls up on the edge of the bed, eyes Pete’s pillow, and asks hesitantly, “Can I…?”

“Yeah, stay,” Pete says immediately, already pulling back the sheets. “I’m just gonna pass out, dude, m’too fucking high to be awake.”

And maybe it’s a bad idea, but he wriggles out of his jeans anyway, kicking them off the end of the bed and stretching facedown across the mattress. This, it turns out, is an excellent plan because a, the sensation of fabric against his skin is fucking incredible, and b, it does an excellent job of hiding his hard-on.

“Thank god,” Patrick mutters, shrugging off his hoodie and flopping sideways onto the bed so he can drag off his jeans (and Pete literally has to shove his face into his pillow because he definitely doesn’t have enough self-control right now to avert his eyes). “My room is so fucking _far._ ”

They both laugh at that, stoner-loud and almost normal, and it nearly feels like what just happened was some kind of weird, drug-induced daydream. But there’s something telling about the careful way Patrick curls up against Pete’s back, soft and comfortable the way they’ve spooned in dozens of shitty vans and shittier apartments, but also different, somehow: the arm draped across Pete’s waist feels more intimate than it probably should, the gentle gust of Patrick’s breath against the nape of Pete’s neck making him shiver more than it ordinarily would. Thank god for weed, he thinks dimly, because he falls asleep so quickly that he doesn’t have to think about it too much.

 

**3.**

It’s one AM, the night after a show, and Patrick is laughing.

At _everything._

“Holy shit,” he gasps, letting Joe pluck the bong out of his unresisting fingers as he bends nearly double with laughter. “The stage—the fucking _stage_ broke, dude, holy shit.”

“So it did, Patrick,” Joe says after a slow, lazy exhale, not entirely managing to conceal his pleased grin. “So it did.”

“So, like, when the crowd physically destroys the venue,” Pete says thoughtfully, accepting the bong and lighter from Joe, “Does that mean you’ve made it?”

“I mean, check out the digs, man,” Joe reminds him, gesturing grandly at the motel room around them. “Two whole rooms, actual beds that aren’t the back seat of a van, maybe even, like, a shower. I’m pretty sure we’ve made it.”

“Two whole rooms,” Patrick echoes with a grin, meeting Pete’s eye with a look that makes his entire body turn warm. Two whole rooms, meaning that they can force Andy to share with the sprawling mess that is Joe, meaning that they get a room and a queen-sized mattress all to themselves. Over the past few months on the road, they’ve had some truly terrifying tour sex, crammed into gas station bathrooms and unhygienic dressing rooms and once, in a moment of weakness, the scraped-up floor of the trailer, but tonight…tonight they’ve got a motel room, a minifridge linked to the label’s bank account, and a fucking _bong_ , and Pete honestly doesn’t think his life could get any better.

“To Fueled By Ramen and their awesome fuckin’ money,” he says solemnly, raising the bong in a toast before lighting it and taking a celebratory hit.

“And to Galadriel,” Joe adds as Pete passes her off to Patrick. “Don’t forget to thank Galadriel.”

“How could we forget?” Patrick smiles fondly down at the bong before taking another hit—his third? Fourth, maybe? Pete’s a little too hazy to know the exact count, but he can tell by the way that Patrick turns bright red, expels a surprised puff of smoke, and nearly falls over coughing that it’s probably one hit too many.

“Easy, easy, don’t spill her,” Joe says, surprisingly calm for a stoner whose bong is under threat, as he pries his precious Galadriel out of Patrick’s hands.

“Yeah, cuz it’d be a real fuckin’ shame to ruin this carpet,” Pete snorts, brushing his hand across the green shag monstrosity covering the floor from wall to wall. Which, actually, turns out to feel pretty awesome, so he does it again, and wow, he’s getting that amazing tingly feeling all over his skin. Stage high and just plain high is a _great_ combination.

He’s distracted, however, from the wonderful world of carpet sensations because Patrick is tipping sideways onto the floor and shit, is he laughing or wheezing? It turns out to sort of be a combination of both, Pete discovers when Patrick flops face-first into his lap and presses another round of wheeze-giggles into his thigh, which is both adorable and, like, super concerning.

“Uh,” he says vaguely, and Patrick rolls over to look up at him, the worrisome gasping somewhat abated but his face still bright red.

“I’m fine,” he manages, flashing Pete a lazy smile that he can’t help but return. “Think it might be time to switch to shotgunning, though.”

“Oh-kay,” Joe says hastily—or, as hastily as is possible after six magnificent bong rips, anyway. “I…think I’m gonna go to Taco Bell.”

“Cool,” Pete says absently, still grinning down at Patrick because blowing a mouthful of smoke into that gorgeous mouth kind of sounds like the best idea ever.

“I’ll get you guys burritos,” Joe announces, seemingly unaware of the fact that he’s being entirely ignored. “If I don’t eat them on the walk back,” he amends thoughtfully, setting down the bong and getting slowly to his feet.

“You’re a prince,” Patrick replies dreamily, his eyes not moving from Pete’s face. “A perfect, burrito-buying, Jewish stoner prince…”

He trails off as the door slams shut.

“D’you think that’s locked?” Pete asks thoughtfully, reaching down to trace the shape of one sideburn with his thumb.

Eyes sliding shut, Patrick leans into his touch. “Probably?”

“Cool.” Pete grabs the bong, lights it, and inhales his biggest lungful of the night. Right on cue, just as his throat is starting to burn, Patrick leans up, slides his fingers into Pete’s hair, and presses their lips together, and the sensation is so overwhelming that it’s another few seconds before he remembers to breathe out.

And then Pete gets to sit back and watch as Patrick sinks down into his lap, eyes fluttering shut, and lets a perfect cloud of smoke drift out of his mouth. And fuck, Pete thinks suddenly, with a weird wrench in his gut, he’s gorgeous, he’s perfect, he’s blinking up at Pete through a wreath of smoke and honestly, the only thing it’s possible for Pete to do at this point is lean down and kiss him.

Their lips connect in slow motion, Pete reaching down to cradle the back of Patrick’s head and Patrick half-sitting up, still draped across Pete’s thigh, and if there are things in the world that are hotter than this then Pete can’t think of them, can’t think of anything but brushing his tongue across Patrick’s lips and Patrick making soft noises against his mouth as his fingers slide through that fine, gingery hair.

“Fuck,” Patrick gasps, flopping back down into Pete’s lap, his chest heaving and his cheeks flushed in a thoroughly gratifying way.

“You okay?” Pete grins down at him, trying not to look too pleased with himself and his extraordinary shotgunning abilities.

Normally, Patrick would smack him for the self-satisfied smirk on his face, but the glorious phenomenon that is stoned Patrick just smiles hazily up at him, pushes his damp bangs off his face, and says, “So I have a dilemma.”

“Yeah?” Pete pushes his fingers deeper into Patrick’s hair, knocking his cap onto the floor and earning himself a choked-off sigh of pleasure.

“Yeah, cuz like,” Patrick manages, clearly fighting to focus on saying words in spite of the gentle scrape of Pete’s fingertips against his scalp, “I _really_ want to make out with you right now, but I don’t think I can handle this kind of ab workout.”

“Do you even lift, bro?” Pete snorts, and that prompts an eye roll and a slow, fond smile as Patrick pushes himself upright and crawls straight into Pete’s lap.

That’s right about when everything starts to dissolve into wave after wave of sensation washing over Pete’s body: the lazy slide of lips against his, the gentle tug of calloused fingers in his hair, the warm glow of skin under his fingertips, the solid pressure of the footboard against his spine as he leans back against it, the slow burning friction of jean-clad hips rolling down against his—and then there’s the sudden wet pressure of lips on his neck, and he has to tip his head back against the bed and breathe deeply to keep from coming in his pants like an over-eager teenager (or like the first time he and Patrick hooked up, which was, like, _totally_ excusable, okay, especially considering how fucking long he’d been waiting).

“You okay?” Patrick murmurs against the base of Pete’s throat, and Pete shivers at the way that glorious voice vibrates straight into his skeleton.

“I have a dilemma,” Pete says, sliding his fingers underneath the hem of Patrick’s tee shirt, barely keeping the laughter out of his voice.

“Mmm?” Patrick hums into Pete’s skin, his voice hitching a little as Pete’s hands skim up his back.

“Cuz like, I want to make out with you basically forever-” Pete pauses as Patrick presses a giggle into his collarbone, punctuated with a soft gasp as one of Pete’s hands ventures beneath his waistband to trace the curve of his ass. “But, like, I’m not sure how much longer I’m gonna. Y’know. Last.”

“No,” Patrick says slowly, drawing back and pressing his hips into Pete’s with a smirk that makes Pete want to kiss him and kill him and do incredible dirty things with him all at once. “I’m not sure that I do know. Like you always say, I’m oblivious as fuck, so you gotta, y’know,” he breaks off as he brushes his thumbs across the strip of bare hipbone and tattoo where Pete’s polo has ridden up, “Spell it out for me.”

“Fuck you,” Pete bites out, his hips bucking involuntarily up into the touch that Patrick has suddenly, cruelly withdrawn.

“You gotta be a little more specific than that,” Patrick grins, clasping his hands innocently behind his back. “I’d hate to get it wrong.”

“Just fucking-” Pete has to take a moment to breathe, because _fuck_ there are so many sensations happening right now, Patrick’s ass on his thighs and Patrick’s weight on his hips and Patrick staring down at him with eyes half-lidded and smiling and _dark_ , Jesus, and Pete’s not sure if he’s ever been this turned on in his entire life.

“Just blow me, Patrick, _please_ ,” he manages finally, more of a sigh than anything else, and Patrick makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat and starts to unbuckle Pete’s belt.

“Bed,” Patrick says, what feels like ages later, his voice going a little strained as he fumbles with Pete’s zipper. “Get—sit up on the bed, so I can, can get to you better.”

And, well, it’s not like there’s a whole lot that Pete can say in response to that, so he just nods his vigorous agreement and heaves himself upwards until he’s sitting, legs splayed, on the edge of the bed, heart pounding and Patrick pressing himself between his thighs. Maybe it’s the high, but Pete’s pretty sure that he’s never seen Patrick like this, cheeks flushed and lips wet and breath ghosting against Pete’s underwear as he drags those absurdly tight jeans off his thighs and onto the hideous carpet. He’s never seen Patrick this calm, this confident, this pleased about pressing kisses and bites into Pete’s thighs until he’s a shaking, moaning mess under those infuriatingly talented lips.

Because yeah, Patrick was a little intimidated by that first blowjob all those months ago, stone cold sober and less than certain of what he was doing when it came to sex in general, let alone with another guy. But Patrick is nothing if not a fast learner, and Pete’s been thoroughly impressed by his progress thus far—but this is a whole other level, a new plane of hot and confident and enthusiastic about pulling down Pete’s briefs and wrapping his lips around his cock and oh, _fuck—_

Pete’s eyes snap open, and a distant part of his brain registers vague amusement at the perfect _o_ that his mouth forms as he slides one hand into Patrick’s hair and lets out a long, shaky gasp that doesn’t even come close to conveying the shockwaves of pleasure resonating through his bones.

And that, more or less, is when the door opens.

Pete feels himself go very, very still, but that doesn’t seem to send enough of a signal to Patrick, who continues paying remarkable attention to Pete’s cock as Joe rolls cheerfully into the room, burrito in mouth and Taco Bell bag in hand.

“So, okay, I ate all the burritos,” Joe announces loudly, and Pete feels Patrick freeze between his legs, fingers clenching suddenly against his thighs, “But I brought you some churros, and-”

He breaks off abruptly, a string of melted cheese drooping sadly out of the corner of his mouth as his glazed eyes finally register the tableau before him: Pete sitting, legs spread, on the eye-searing motel bedspread, his horrified gaze fixed on Joe; Patrick kneeling between Pete’s thighs, utterly motionless except for the scorching flush creeping into the tops of his ears.

“Uh—oh, oh, I, uh, shit,” Joe says hastily, finally diverting his gaze and flinging the takeout bag haphazardly to the ground. “Sorry, sorry, I’m just—I’ll be going, good night, enjoy the churros, bye-”

His babbling is cut short by the slam of the door, leaving Pete and Patrick alone in the room once more.

“Uh.” Pete clears his throat, glancing down—and shit, god, the sight is a little more than he can handle right now: Patrick, cheeks and ears gone crimson, looking up at him and pulling off his cock with a soft, slick _pop._

“Do you want me to, um,” Patrick mumbles, his voice gone a little hoarse, and if Pete was worried that the intrusion had thrown him off his game, he was wrong as hell because _damn_ his hard-on is back in full force.

“Don’t stop,” he says immediately, and the sheepish but thoroughly pleased grin that Patrick aims at him is almost worth the horrifying knowledge that his lead guitarist has seen him mid-blowjob. But, then again, whatever, because Joe probably won’t remember in the morning, and also Patrick is lowering his head again and sliding his tongue along the underside of Pete’s cock and he’s right back on the edge again, throwing his head back and letting out a long, shuddering moan.

“Fuck,” he gasps, his fingers tightening in Patrick’s hair, “Fuck, fuck, shit, I-”

And then Patrick decides to go and deep-throat him, swallow him down until he can feel the head of his dick bump gently against the back of that perfect throat. Which is, okay, totally not fair, because it’s a move that Patrick’s _never_ pulled before, especially not when Pete’s stoned out of his mind and so fucking sensitive that he’s letting out a small, strangled noise and coming so hard that he sees stars.

For half a second it feels like he’s in free fall, but that’s probably just the sensation of his soul returning to his body as he flops backwards onto the bed, utterly boneless. When the haze has cleared from his vision somewhat, he manages to lift his head enough to spot Patrick peeking over the edge of the mattress, his face bright pink and his hair an utterly atrocious bird’s nest. And okay, Pete’s definitely pretty fucking stoned, but it’s still one of the best things he’s seen in a long time.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Pete croaks, flailing one arm in Patrick’s general direction and hoping against hope that it’ll pass for a “come hither” kind of gesture. Miraculously, it does; Patrick grunts faintly and heaves himself onto the bed next to Pete, who promptly curls up around him like an affectionate octopus.

“I think I saw an alternate universe, dude,” Pete whispers into the glowing skin of Patrick’s neck, earning himself an incredulous snort.

“I’m serious!” he insists, pulling back to stare into Patrick’s disbelieving eyes. “It was like—it was like a fuckin’ portal, man, it was some Ghostbusters level shit.”

A half-laugh escapes Patrick’s mouth before he manages to restrain himself, school his expression into some semblance of seriousness, and growl, in an entirely half-assed excuse for a demon voice, “ _Zuul!_ ”

“Fuck you, you know what I meant,” Pete scoffs while Patrick finally breaks out into a full-fledged grin.

“I’m sorry, Pete, you know how much I love hearing that a blowjob from me is comparable to finding a shape-shifting god of destruction in your fridge.”

“Okay, first off, Zuul was the _servant_ of the shape-shifting god of destruction,” Pete points out, and Patrick rolls his eyes, pouting a little at not being the grandmaster of useless 80s trivia for once. “And secondly, do you want me to get you off or not?”

“Only if we declare an absolute end to all Ghostbusters references from here on out,” Patrick says firmly, his declaration somewhat ruined by the slow, expectant smile that spreads across his face as he watches Pete push himself up onto his hands and knees.

“What, you mean the Stay-Puft Man doesn’t get you going?” Pete grins, slinging one leg across Patrick’s hips and running his fingers slowly down Patrick’s chest. “Because I mean, damn, that sailor outfit…”

“You are unbe _lievable_ ,” Patrick proclaims, the words muffled as he slings one arm across his face to hide his grin. “I mean it, seriously, they should make a moment-killer of the year award just for you-” He trails off as the words dissolve into giggles, and Pete has to take a second to sit back and appreciate him like this: face still pinkish, hair still ridiculous, tee shirt hiked halfway up his stomach and a brilliant, genuine smile just visible in the crook of his elbow.

And then Patrick lets his arm fall back against the mattress, and when he meets Pete’s eyes he must see some reflection of the bright, tender, unbearably fond thing glowing like a galaxy in Pete’s chest, because that megawatt grin subsides into something smaller, softer, but no less perfect.

At last (after taking approximately seven thousand mental pictures because there is no _way_ he’s ever going to forget the sight of this beautiful creature sprawled out beneath him), Pete leans down and kisses him. As their lips and tongues connect, Patrick makes this _sound_ , this little choked-off sigh of what might just be contentment, and Pete can’t help but press himself down to feel the heat of his body and the texture of his clothes, the proof that Patrick is real and this is happening and this is Pete’s life and it is _awesome_.

Because yeah, there are very few things in life that are better than a high orgasm, but as far as Pete’s concerned, giving someone _else_ a high orgasm is one of them. Or, at least, giving Patrick one is, because this way Pete gets to study him, use the weird slow-motion focus of his own high to inspect Patrick’s every reaction. Pete can watch him shiver as he slides his hands under that ridiculous Alkaline Trio shirt, can hear his faint gasp as he presses a toothy kiss into the crook of that pale neck, can see him squirm self-consciously as the shirt comes off and drops onto the floor, and then can look on with awe (and, okay, a little pride) as that discomfort turns to pleasure under the influence of his hands and mouth.

To be brief: thanks to the miraculous power of weed, Pete can be both there and not there, experiencing every moment fully while he also catalogues it, files it away in one of his many mental Patrick folders for future study. And, okay, maybe it’s like, a little creepy, but Pete’s got a more analytical mind than most people give him credit for, and Patrick is one of those people that he wants to learn from the inside out.

Anyway, it’s not exactly like Patrick minds; thanks, once again, to the wonderful world of illicit substances, he’s a little looser than usual, a little less restrained, a little more willing to moan and gasp and whine as Pete slides ever so slowly down his body and starts to work off his jeans. Patrick was a little apprehensive about noise levels before they did the high sex thing for the first time ( _Pete you know how my volume control gets when I’m baked, what if I scream like a banshee, what if I’m, like, embarrassingly loud, what if I wake everyone up,_ etc.), but once he finally worked up the courage, he turned out to be…well, surprisingly into it. Pete can’t help but wonder if, somewhere deep down, Patrick _likes_ losing volume control, likes letting go of the shyness and just going the fuck at it.

His suspicions appear to be confirmed by the sound that Patrick makes as Pete breathes carefully against his underwear, this hitching sort of moan that prompts Pete, entirely in the spirit of scientific inquiry, to lick a long, slow stripe up to Patrick’s waistband. This results in a slow, shuddering breath that seems to reverberate throughout Patrick’s entire body; when Pete slides his briefs down those perfect thighs, he can feel them shaking just a little.

So, of course, Pete adopts the only sensible solution: he skims his hands up Patrick’s thighs, curls his thumbs around Patrick’s hipbones, and wraps his lips around Patrick’s dick. And, well, if he thought the noises _before_ were loud, what’s coming out of Patrick’s mouth now is on a whole other level. Honestly, Pete almost ( _almost,_ mind you) gets distracted from the task at hand by the glorious litany of gasps and moans and whimpers that get louder and louder until they culminate in a choked-off sob as Patrick goes entirely still, digs his fingers into the sheets, and comes.

“Holy shit,” Patrick murmurs as Pete wipes his mouth and works on stifling his pleased grin. “Holy _shit,_ ” he repeats, almost awestruck, as Pete crawls back up the mattress and drapes himself along Patrick’s side.

“Yeah?” Pete inquires, smoothing Patrick’s haystack hair off of his forehead.

“Yeah,” Patrick says with a shudder, curling into Pete’s body. After a moment’s pause, he admits, a trifle grudgingly, “I…think I get what you mean about the alternate dimension.”

“Ha!” Pete cackles, and Patrick shoots him a warning look—which, of course, Pete ignores, because if the neighbors weren’t woken up by the sex opera that just happened in here then they sure as hell won’t be bothered by a little triumphant hollering. “I told you! I fuckin’ told you!”

“I’m not saying I saw it,” Patrick backpedals hastily. “No fridge opening, no flames, no Zuul, but, like—I guess I understand the sentiment now.”

“That good, huh?” Pete smirks, earning himself a half-hearted eye roll; Patrick’s still too stoned on Galadriel and afterglow to do his worst.

“You know it was, don’t be an asshole,” Patrick snorts, offsetting the words by resting his cheek on Pete’s shoulder and nuzzling petulantly at his shirt. “Why isn’t this off yet?”

“Because your majesty didn’t see fit to take it off,” Pete retorts with a grin, extending his arms like a child waiting to be undressed.

“Gosh, do I have to do everything around here?” With a groan, Patrick half sits up, grabs the hem of Pete’s shirt, and drags it unceremoniously off over his head.

“Well, y’know what they say,” Pete chuckles, settling back against the pillows and tugging the sheets up over the two of them. “You want something done right, you gotta do it yourself.”

“It’s a terrible burden,” Patrick agrees, the words half swallowed by a yawn as he tucks his face into the crook of Pete’s neck.

“Except when it comes to smoking,” Pete amends thoughtfully, tracing an absent curlicue into the skin of Patrick’s back. “You’re still fucking terrible at that.”

“Yeah, well.” Patrick tilts his head up and flashes Pete a sleepy, contented smile. “I guess it’s a good thing that I have you, huh?”

“Yeah,” Pete says thickly because whoops, Patrick’s looking all affectionate again and now that big, tender, glowing thing is back and wreaking all kinds of havoc on his vocal cords. Through the fond smile spreading irresistibly across his face, he manages, “I think, as usual, that you’re right.”

The pleased chuckle that Patrick presses into his neck is enough to keep that smile on Pete’s face as he reaches over, turns out the light, and slips into a dreamless sleep.

 

**Epilogue.**

“Hey.” Pete rounds the corner of the van to find Joe just where he expected: one knee up on their miserable excuse for a trailer, a guitar case securely cradled in each hand. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

“Huh?” Joe turns to look at him—and, okay, maybe it’s a combination of the disheveled hair and the typical confused look in Joe’s eyes, but Pete could swear that he looks a lot more like a cornered animal than a guitarist.

“Look, uh…” Pete takes a step closer, pulling the trailer door behind him to shield them from the rest of the parking lot. “About last night…”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Joe says immediately, shoving the guitars into the trailer with unusual haste. Pete winces a little at the scrape of plastic cases on the beat-up trailer floor.

“Look, man, I don’t want this to be weird-”

“As in, I have been reliably informed that I am not _going_ to talk about it,” Joe clarifies, scrambling backwards out of the trailer and dusting off his knees.

Stepping sideways to block Joe’s imminent escape attempt, Pete frowns and demands, “What the fuck are you-”

“As _in,_ ” Joe interrupts him in a small, tight voice, “Patrick has been quite clear about what he plans to do if I ever do decide to talk about it. Which I won’t,” he adds hastily, that panicked look returning to his eyes. “You can tell him that. I’m not gonna talk about it and it’s not gonna be weird and I’m definitely, _definitely_ not gonna make any churro jokes ever, ever again.”

“Churro jokes,” Pete repeats slowly, and then he processes the regret on Joe’s face and finally puts two and two together. “Dude. You walked in on Patrick mid-bj, and you thought the way to handle it was with a churro joke?”

“I was trying to diffuse the situation!” Joe says miserably. “Things were tense this morning and I panicked, okay? It was the first thing that came to mind.”

“Jesus,” Pete sighs, trying and mostly managing to hide his smile. “Well, I wouldn’t worry that much, dude, it’s not like he’s actually gonna do anything.”

“I dunno, man, you should have seen the look in his eyes.” Joe wipes his hands on his jeans, glances around nervously, and adds, “Look, I, uh—I’m gonna go check on Galadriel real quick, just—just in case-”

Pete never finds out what, exactly, the case may be; Joe gives up on the sentence and makes a beeline for the motel, moving faster than Pete’s seen him go in a long time. Pete lets him pass, laughing and shaking his head. He’s known this for a while, but sometimes it’s nice to be reminded of how completely and utterly in love he is.


End file.
